


Props

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Angst, Beauty and the Beast, Crack, Curses, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Romance, Schmoop, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten conversations Castiel and Dean had while under a curse, and one they had after the curse was broken. A fusion with Disney's <em>Beauty and the Beast</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Props

**Author's Note:**

> **Other characters** : Ellen Harvelle, Jo Harvelle, Bobby Singer, Ash, John Winchester.
> 
> Written for the [Dean/Castiel Ever After](http://community.livejournal.com/dc_everafter/) fest on livejournal.

10

The castle’s double doors were so massive and creakingly heavy on their hinges that whenever anyone pushed them open, the sound of it would roll through the castle in deep, forlorn echoes. It worked better than any sentry in announcing an arrival, which was important because this particular castle wasn’t the kind that received many visitors.

So when Castiel heard the shuddering wail that could only mean that someone was forcing entry, he was up and off, rushing through the castle’s silent hallways as quickly as he could. He reached the first floor landing but approached no further, choosing to remain hidden behind a banister and peeking out to get a glimpse of the trespasser.

It was a young man, and apparently one with little sense. He wasn’t making any effort to be subtle about his intrusion, practically stomping around the lobby in his big boots and calling out plaintively, “Dad?”

 _Dad_. That explained his arrival, so quickly on the heels of the lost wanderer currently in their dungeon. Castiel felt a modicum of pity for the youth, but that was quickly suppressed by his calculations on how to turn this into an opportunity.

“Hey, Cas,” a voice said near his shoulder, “I thought I heard the—”

Castiel waved a hand irritably. “Will you be quiet?”

“Why?” Dean asked. He pushed at Castiel’s shoulder, trying to get a better look at the new arrival despite Castiel’s attempts to force him to stay hidden. “Is that – holy shit, is that a _dude_?”

“Dean, be still,” Castiel said warningly.

“You—” Dean shoved a candle-hand in Castiel’s face, forcing him to back away to avoid getting burned, “—have such a knack for over-thinking things. New dude in the castle, big damn opportunity to get the spell broken!”

“That’s what you said about the last visitor we received.” Castiel grabbed the candle-hand being insolently waved in his face, and blew the flame out. “Need I remind you how that one turned out?”

Dean winced. “How was I supposed to know he was a hunter?”

“And it appears that this may be that hunter’s _son_ ,” Castiel said, just as the boy called out again for his father. “You’ve had your chance, and now we’ll do it my way.”

“Fine.” Dean crossed his arms. “So what’re we going to do, smarty-pants?”

“We’re going to lure him into the dungeon to the other man, if that is indeed his father,” Castiel said. “We won’t make our presence known to this boy at all, and we will let _her_ decide what to do with him.”

Dean rolled his eyes but he shrugged, which was the closest to acquiescence Castiel would ever get from him. “Sure, we can try that,” he said. Then, in alarm, “Hey, the kid’s gone!” He leapt after the boy in chase, moving faster than one would have thought possible for an anthropomorphic candelabra with no legs.

Castiel spared a moment to sigh, tighten up the pendulum anchor in what passed for his chest, and then followed.

* * *

9

The worst thing about the curse – and there were a great many contenders for that top position – was that while its effects were shared among all in the castle, its purpose was bound to the Mistress, and her alone.

Castiel had been there when it happened, one of the few to witness the exact words that had been spoken by the magician, and had thus understood the limits and limitations of the curse from the very beginning. It was for her and about her: their Mistress, their Lady, the fairest of a kingdom that had been spelled to forget about her in punishment for an arguable crime. Though the breadth of her dominion had been reduced to the castle grounds, the people who still lived in it were beholden to her more than ever.

They were nothin’ but collateral damage, Bobby had said once the dust settled and everyone regarded the newest turn of their lives.

Castiel understood and accepted that. He was loyal to his Mistress, and with that came the ability to compartmentalize the fact that his fate lay in her hands. After all,someonehad to stay level-headed and keep order in the castle.

On the other end of that spectrum was Dean, who neither understood nor accepted the terms of their magical prison – and indeed, it was a prison – and railed at it every chance he could, sometimes to the detriment of others around them.

Castiel had already made the mistake of letting Dean welcome the stranger named John into the castle without leave of their Mistress the night before. That had ended badly, but not as badly as it could have. After all, John had tried to kill her, and yet he was still in one piece. It was a good thing, too, as now had come a new opportunity in this boy who was possibly John’s son.

“Glow brighter,” Castiel whispered, nudging Dean. The boy was a fair distance down the hall, rattling doorknobs in a way that was methodical but would take him hours to find the dungeon. “So that he’ll follow us.”

“Bait, coming right up.” Dean leaned forward, the flame on what passed for his head flaring brightly for a moment. “Yep, he saw that. Oh shit, he’s fast.”

They pushed the door behind them open enough to slip through, making just enough noise to tempt as they made their way down the stone steps. They could hear the boy following, calling out, “Hello, is anyone there?”

The castle wasn’t a warm place now that they were rolling into winter, but the dungeon bore the worst of it. John was coughing in his cell, and the sound propelled the boy to run faster, grabbing a torch from the wall before rushing to the cell doors.

“Sam,” John croaked hoarsely. “How’d you find me?”

“Doesn’t matter,” the boy said. He grabbed the hand reaching out through the bars of the cell. “We need to get you out of here.”

“He’s young enough, don’t you think?” Dean whispered in a distracting commentary from the reunion before them. They were hidden well enough behind a corner, but not for long if Dean kept prattling on. “His hair’s kinda stupid, but it’s not like she can be picky.”

“I’d really appreciate it if you’d be quiet right now,” Castiel whispered back. “She’s coming.”

The base nature of the curse was transformation. Its focal point was their Mistress, but everyone living who’d been in the castle the night the magician declared his fearsome spell had their share of the magical fallout. Some of the others had argued that by being turned into household objects they were worse off than their Mistress, but Castiel disagreed.

In the first few seconds of her arrival in the dungeon, it was a struggle to remember that the creature now stalking up from the shadows and making Sam gasp was a sentient being. Even Castiel had to repress a shudder at the sight of her, logic temporarily overcome by fear.

“Intruder in my castle!” Mistress roared, her voice long ago distorted by new vocal cords. “Who dares?”

Sam moved, something metallic in his hands that the Mistress swiped away with a paw. The object clattered as it fell and slid across the cobblestone floor, coming to stop near the wall. It was shotgun.

“Well, shit,” Dean muttered. “He’s a hunter, too.”

Castiel grabbed Dean’s arm. “Don’t interfere.”

Dean hissed, “She’ll mess it up—”

“Don’t you _dare_!”

“It’s a werewolf, Sam!” John shouted, slamming against the cell door. “Don’t you touch my son!”

“You have no silver on you,” the Mistress said as she padded forward, fur rippling over her massive body. Her eyes glowed in the gloom, two points of unearthly light that stayed focused on Sam. “I would be able to smell it, if there were.”

“My father hasn’t done anything wrong,” Sam said. Fear made him tremble, but he still rose to his up to face her. “Let him go.”

“We need to—” Dean’s whine was cut off when Castiel shoved him against the wall, one hand on his mouth to silence him. Dean predictably tried to burn Castiel’s hands, but he gave up when it became obvious that Castiel wasn’t going to budge.

It was their Mistress’ curse to break, and Castiel would do his damned best to make sure that she had the chance to do it on her own terms.

“Take me instead,” Sam was saying to her. “Please. Let my father go.”

Dean stopped struggling. They watched the exchange, their Mistress having recognized the opportunity for what it was and negotiating a trade to retain one prisoner within the castle walls.

“You must promise to stay here forever,” she said. “And make no attempt to harm me or any of my servants. The moment you try anything funny, your life is forfeit, and I will take back your father.” It was a good, dramatic line, delivered with her fangs bared. “I will take your word.”

“I promise,” was Sam’s answer.

It wasn’t the best start, not with John snarling curses while Sam watched from his new place behind the cell door, but it was still a start.

Castiel tried to suppress his own excitement – _the boy had been willing to trade his life for his father’s_ – and turn his attention to the things that now needed to be done. There would have to be changes in the castle, accommodations made to their new guest, for he _was_ a guest and would need to be treated as such.

“This has potential,” Castiel said, pulling away from Dean. He glanced out to where Mistress had gone, John dragged along behind her, and then back to where Sam had gone quiet behind the cell door.

“You taste like shellac.” Dean made a face, smacking his lips. “Gross.”

“And you’ve got wax all over me, so we’re even,” Castiel replied. “Come. You’re going to advise Mistress that the boy should have his own room, and then you will find out what you can about him. Sam should not be left alone with his own thoughts for too long, so move.”

Dean made a pleased noise. “Hey, good plan. You’re telling the others, yeah?”

“Indeed,” Castiel said. They had work to do.

* * *

8

Staff meetings in the castle were their own challenge. After the initial panic of the curse had passed and their Mistress had retreated away from them, Castiel had been adamant about keeping a regular schedule of activity where possible. He did not begrudge their Mistress for distancing herself, but that would’ve meant chaos in the castle if the senior staff hadn’t made the effort to bring some semblance of normalcy into their new reality of being walking, talking household objects.

Perhaps this was why Castiel’s new form was a clock. He was made up of gears and levers, each piece specific to its function, and his function specific to the running of the castle. Part of that role was to chair the staff meetings, but today’s was different.

Castiel was standing at his usual spot on the counter, looking out into a sea of faces that were a mix of almost every possible geometric shape. Where previously these meetings had been barely tolerated (despite their, in his opinion, utmost importance), he could now feel a palpable sense of expectation in the air.

“This is how we’re going to do this,” Castiel said, for once not needing to raise his voice to get everyone’s attention. “The rumors are true. Yes, there is a boy in the castle.” A ripple passed over the crowd, but Castiel pressed on, “He has been moved to one of the guest rooms in the North Wing. Dean has gone to introduce himself—”

“Lovely,” Victor muttered.

“—because it’s best that young Sam knows that he’s in an enchanted castle and all that comes with it,” Castiel continued. “That kind of thing can be difficult to take, especially when coupled with the traumas of having faced a werewolf and bartering his life away to save his father’s.”

Jo bounced on top of Ellen’s teapot head, her equivalent of raising an arm for attention. “Dean knows not to screw the pooch and tell Sam about the curse, right? Because nothing’d make the whole thing fall apart faster than knowing that that’s expected of him. It’ll be like thinking about pink elephants.”

“I don’t remember what elephants look like,” Ash said.

“I trust that Dean knows not to share that particular piece of information, Jo,” Castiel said. “But it’s important right now that Sam feels he has allies inside the castle. He didn’t come here willingly, he is not staying here willingly. That makes all the difference, and first contact has to be made as quickly as possible before he emotionally shuts down.”

“Castiel,” Ellen said reproachfully, “The boy’s a person, not a pawn.”

“Precisely,” Castiel said, with some satisfaction. “If Dean hadn’t gone to greet the boy, I would have.” There was a polite silence. “Yes, let’s move on. Dinner tonight. Mistress will likely invite Sam to join her, so kitchen crew, you’re cooking for two, and I mean actual cooking.”

“Hell, yeah!” Bobby crowed.

“Cleaning crew, dining room,” Castiel said, nodding when the brooms and dusters stood at attention. “Let’s just consider ourselves lucky that the guest room Mistress picked is presentable, though no doubt the boy’s judgment has already been influenced by what he’s seen of the building so far. Let’s not worsen his impression.”

There were mutters of _goddamn spring cleaning_ at the back of the group, but Castiel knew that it wasn’t meant in a negative way. There was a feeling of excitement, the rising of hope where for so long there had been none, but it was still tentative and cautious – as delicate as Sam’s current relationship with their Mistress.

“You may applaud,” Dean said, leaping into the room. He was beaming, the flames on his head and hands glowing brighter than usual. “Kid’s an emo case, but I think he’s the one.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Castiel said. He sighed the sigh of the long-suffering when Dean leapt up on to the counter beside him. “Excuse me, I was in the middle of—”

“His name’s Sam,” Dean said excitedly, pushing past Castiel to address the assembled staff. “Winchester, like the gun, and he’s friggin’ perfect, all we need to do is scrub him up a little bit and—”

“One step at a time,” Castiel said. “Everybody remain calm, we should start with—”

“Is he single?” Jake asked. “I mean, it’ll be tricky, yeah, if he’s got a girlfriend waiting for him somewhere.”

“Free as a bird,” Dean said, before wincing. “Okay, poor choice of words.”

It was too late; the assembly’s concentration was shot and they were already talking animatedly amongst themselves. Castiel sighed. “This is pointless. Cleaning crew, go! Kitchen crew, to your stations!”

The eruption of free noise was pleasing, people rushing to their respective duties as loudly as possible. Castiel soothed himself with the thought that he couldn’t have realistically expected everyone to function normally when this new factor named Sam Winchester had entered their previously static, unchanging lives.

Dean trotted up beside Castiel. “What’s up?”

Castiel side-eyed him. “I’m Majordomo, Dean. I was chairing that discussion.”

“Sure,” Dean said, not sounding at all sorry, “I know how you feel about following protocol, but you have to admit that this kid being here is way bigger than all of that.”

“I’ll concede _that_ ,” Castiel said, “If you’ll concede that you don’t respect me.”

“But that’s not true.” Dean smiled toothily; Castiel guessed that it was meant to be charming, though he would never understand how it worked on other staff. “I totally respect you. A little. When it’s convenient.”

“Please stop talking to me.”

* * *

7

There were things Castiel could do well, such as arranging complex schedules, delegating tasks and following their accomplishment, and acting as an intermediary between Mistress and the rest of the castle. Then there were things he was poor at, though Castiel would be the first to admit his shortcomings.

He looked up, up and up at Sam. The boy’s eyes were red-rimmed, but he put on a good front, chin up and shoulders back.

Castiel bowed. “Our Mistress invites you for dinner.”

Sam’s expression closed off. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Excuse me?”

Though his legs trembled as he moved, Sam pointedly sat down in the chair by the window. In this particular room, it was the farthest point from the door.

“I said no,” Sam said.

It had been a while since there had been any guests in the castle, and Sam’s situation was hardly typical, but Castiel was still nonplussed by this reaction. Sam had set his shoulders and drawn his mouth tight, making it clear that nothing Castiel could say would make him leave the room and go down to where Mistress was already waiting.

Sam was a guest, not a member of the staff roster whom Castiel would gladly badger until they yielded.

So Castiel bowed, and returned to the dining room.

Mistress took one glance at him – registering the fact that he’d arrived alone – and slunk down to the floor, ears flattened against her head.

“I tried—” Castiel started.

“I know,” she snapped, though Castiel knew she was angry at herself. “It was stupid to think…”

“Now, now,” Ellen said reassuringly, bouncing across the table towards her, “It’s been a long day and he’s tired, I’m sure he’ll be more agreeable after a good night’s sleep.”

Castiel shuffled over to Dean’s side, nudging him. “Dean, you should talk to Sam.”

Dean’s slowly swiveled around to look at him. “What was that?”

“You’re better at talking to people,” Castiel said. There was no shame in asking for help, and he refused to be irritated by the surprise on Dean’s face. “You already have camaraderie with the boy. Maybe you can convince him to join her for dinner.”

“To be honest, Cas,” Dean said, leaning in so Her Highness wouldn’t hear, “I don’t think anything I say would work.”

“Dean.” Castiel stole a quick look at where the Mistress had curled in on herself in despair. “You have a way with people. Everyone in the castle likes you, confides in you, trusts you to tell them the right thing. I’m sure the boy will listen to you.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Dean replied, which had a surprising lack of sarcasm, “But I mean… Sam’s pretty upset. His whole life has just flipped been on its head, and I don’t think he’s in the mood for food, no matter how hungry he is. We can try again tomorrow?”

That was not a solution that Castiel liked, but if even Dean thought there was no chance, he couldn’t see any other way around it. Sam was still smarting from having his hand twisted, and to be forced into a face-to-face with his captor would likely make things worse.

“Send him some food anyway,” Mistress said as she padded out of the room. “He doesn’t deserve to go hungry just because he’s a prisoner.”

Castiel wanted to suggest that Her Highness bring the food to Sam herself, but she was gone, too fast on her canine-shaped legs. Dean pointed out that the gesture itself might endear her to Sam, even if only indirectly, so they went together, plates of food arranged neatly on top of Ash.

Sam answered their knocking, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Oh.”

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, sauntering into room. “You not too hungry, are you?”

“I was a little, but…” Sam eyed them warily, unsure what to make of their arrival. “I wasn’t expecting room service.” He bit his lip anxiously, watching Castiel’s face. “Is she… angry?”

“Piqued, maybe, but not angry,” Castiel said, trying to sound friendly. “Please eat up. And do let us know there’s anything specific you’d like, the kitchen can do requests. In fact, they’d welcome it.”

Sam lifted the dish cover, jumping when Ash said, “Nice digs, man.”

“Oh god, even the food trays are alive,” Sam said, laughing nervously. Where Castiel would have just nodded politely, Dean swooped in, chortling with Sam and pointing out how creepy it would be if the toilets were alive, too, and ain’t it a good thing for Sam that they weren’t.

Castiel had seen Dean be like this with other residents of the castle, putting them at ease with an honest smile and a few words that came so easily to Dean’s lips. Castiel may have been in charge of the running of the castle, but Dean was the one who smoothed the gears. It was annoying, in the sense that it emphasized where the gaps existed in Castiel’s expertise, but he could not deny that there were some things that were far too complicated to learn out of a book.

Dean’s skills worked just as well with Sam, their dialogue friendly while Castiel listened and occasionally offered something when prompted.

“I’ve never been in an enchanted castle before,” Sam said. He’d finished his meal and kneeled down to get a closer look at them. “I know a little bit about magic, but I never imagined that there could be a whole community like this.”

“The less you know about it, the better,” Dean said, sounding flippant in his deflection of further questioning from Sam. “My eyes and teeth are made of wax, I’m constantly on fire, and I never burn down or out. It’s just too plain freaky to think about how that works.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam said, though he didn’t sound satisfied. “Can I… have a look around anyway?”

Dean glanced at Castiel. Gratified at the acknowledgement, Castiel said, “We’d be happy to give you a tour, Sam. There are many beautiful tapestries and artworks all over the castle.”

“Well, shit, that’s the boring stuff,” Dean said, clearing seeing how their being Sam’s chaperones would be better than letting him wander off on his own. “Now I _know_ I got to come with, or Cas’ll talk your goddamn ear off.”

“No, that’s you,” Castiel said.

Dean grinned. “You like my banal chatter, admit it.”

“But that would be a lie, Dean. You know how much I hate to lie.”

Sam snickered. Castiel was pleased that his appearance had much improved from earlier, and not only because he had been filled with good food. “I’d love to have a tour of the place,” Sam said, “if you guys are up for it.”

“Pshaw, magical objects don’t need sleep,” Dean said.

In the tour of the castle that followed, Sam revealed himself to be sharp, observant, and boasting smarts that had Castiel pausing more than once in his descriptive monologue. Castiel thought shrewdly that it was an intriguing combination for a hunter, hinting that he might be open-minded enough to consider their Mistress as more than an antagonist, or prey.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a nerd,” Dean said with a guffaw. “You’d think that you and Cas would be getting along like a house on fire.”

“No, that’s you,” Sam said, grin spreading across his face. “You guys get along like a house on fire.”

“Well, Dean _is_ on fire,” Castiel said.

Dean’s fake, exaggerated cough made Sam’s shoulders shake. “Cas. Cas, Cas, Cas. That has got to be the lamest pun I’ve ever heard in my entire life. I’m proud of you.”

“If anyone knows the quality of puns, it would indeed be you,” Castiel said wryly. “If I had a penny for every bad ‘hot’ or ‘in flames’ joke you’ve ever made—”

“The difference is that my jokes are actually funny,” Dean said. “Unlike yours, which always feature numbers for some weird reason.”

“They’re funnier in French,” Castiel huffed.

“Hey, guys, what’s up here?” Sam said.

They turned to where Sam was standing in front of the West Wing staircase.

“Shit,” Castiel muttered, thought his swearing still paled against Dean’s more vibrant choice of words. They rushed together to stop Sam from traipsing up to the Mistress’ private Wing, which was the only place in the castle that Sam – or anyone else, barring emergencies – weren’t allowed.

That would _definitely_ be a disaster.

* * *

6

“I’m an idiot,” Castiel said.

“I didn’t notice him slipping away either,” Dean said, sounding as anxious as Castiel felt. “And holy shit, I thought you said Mistress has been getting better at controlling herself.”

“I’m not always with her when she loses her mind,” Castiel told him. “All I know is what she tells me. She could have been lying to make me – to make _us_ – feel better. But what was Sam thinking, going up to the West Wing like that? Did he think it was forbidden for fun?”

“He’s human, he was curious,” Dean said. “Haven’t you ever wanted to do something you’re not supposed to?”

“No.”

Dean snorted. “Figures.”

“Can you both please shut up,” Ellen said. Only a few others had been alerted to the situation, but Ellen’s disapproval was bad enough by itself. Jo was silent, tucked in at Ellen’s side, and Ash was still and steady beneath them. “Once again, in point form. Sam saw Mistress in full werewolf on ‘roids mode, freaked out and ran away. Mistress went after him while _still_ in full werewolf mode. None of us can follow to help.”

“That,” Jo declared, “is some deep shit we’re in.”

“We can try—” Dean started.

“I know what you’re thinking, and no,” Castiel said fiercely. Dean had ideas – Dean _always_ had ideas – but they were dangerous more often than not. “Definitely not.”

“I have to agree with Cas on this one,” Ellen said. “With Sam and Mistress running at full speed, there’s no way any of us can catch up with them before we have to turn back. Not even Bobby.”

“I know, but…” Dean growled with frustration. “I just hate not being able to fucking _do_ anything.” Some things were constant, and Dean’s stubbornness was one of them. When the curse befell them, no one tried harder than Dean to break it, and no one _kept_ on trying as hard as Dean. It was almost comforting in its predictability.

“We have to wait,” Castiel said, settling in what was his constant position on matters. “That’s all we can do.”

“But it makes no sense!” Dean’s flames glowed brighter at the exclamation. “Mistress turned that magician asshole down, and he can’t even take rejection like a man? He had to put a dumb-ass curse on her so she’d never know new love? What the fuck kind of bullshit that?”

“Fucked up bullshit,” Jo agreed.

“Come on,” Ellen said reasonably, “There’s no point lingering on things we can’t affect, or weren’t even part of.”

“That’s bullshit, too,” Dean muttered, crossing his arms.

Everyone jumped at the sudden slam of the main doors.

They looked at each other, confirming that they’d heard the same thing, and then rushed out as a group.

The doors were open, and Sam was standing between them.

“She needs help,” he said, gasping for breath. There was snow on his hair and clothes, and draped on his back was their Mistress, unconscious and bleeding.

Ellen rushed forward, shouting “Get Bobby!” over her shoulder.

The story, as Sam haltingly told them while they fussed over their Mistress, was that he had run into the woods and been attacked by wolves – normal, hungry wolves, not supernatural ones. Certain death would have been his fate if Mistress, bloodlust singing in her moon-charged veins, hadn’t arrived on the scene.

“She wasn’t…” Sam struggled to describe what he’d seen. “She was vicious. Tore them apart.” Strangely enough, he didn’t seem terrified of Mistress; he’d touched her, brought her back to the castle, and even now hovered close as Bobby bound her wounds.

“She’s a werewolf,” Bobby said gruffly. “You know what a werewolf is, boy?”

“Yeah, I’ve—” Sam had probably been about to say _hunted_ , but caught himself in time, “—seen some before, but she’s different, isn’t she? She doesn’t go back to being human.”

“Her body is what it is, but her mind comes and goes with the moon,” Castiel explained. “Her… mind slips around midnight, when the moon is at its zenith. At those times she secludes herself in the West Wing. The larger the moon, the longer the call.”

“Oh.” A complicated expression of understanding, irritation and curiosity passed over Sam’s face. “Well, you could’ve just _said_ so. Is she still—”

“It would’ve passed by now,” Bobby said, after a glance at Castiel’s clock face. He tied up the last bandage and leaned back on his wheels. “She’s cold, we should move her near a fire.”

They ended up bringing Mistress to one the reading rooms, settling her on the rug by fireplace where Dean lit up a flame for her warmth.

Sam continued to hover worriedly until Ellen started shooing everyone out. “Come on, let her rest,” she said firmly, “You, too.”

That just left the three of them with their Mistress. Dean had just locked the doors when she finally stirred with a mewling sound of disorientation. Awareness soon returned to her icy blue eyes, but an optimistic attempt to roll over was abandoned with a grunt.

“You’re injured, Mistress,” Castiel said. “It’s best to remain still.”

“How about some tea?” Ellen suggested.

“Sam,” she said, trying to sit up. “I can smell his fear on me, what happened?”

They explained what they knew, and as they spoke, her eyes grew weary beneath her shaggy, dirty mane. Once they were done, she said, “I can’t do it.” Her voice always came out in low growls, but the human fear underneath it was clear. “I’ll kill him.”

“We’ll do better to prevent that,” Castiel promised quickly. “I was careless, I apologize—”

“I distracted Cas,” Dean said. “It’s not his fault, he was watching out for you.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Mistress cried out, rolling up on to her feet with her fangs bared. The three of them took an involuntary step backward – she was ferocious, her claws were still caked with dried blood, and they were all under two feet tall. “Look at me! _Look at me_!”

“He saved your life,” Castiel said carefully. She deflated, flopping to the ground. “He is a hunter, he knew what you are, he’d seen what you can do, and he saved you _anyway_. To say that is remarkable would be… an understatement.”

“I don’t…” She shivered, ears flattened against her head. “I don’t remember how to do any of it.”

“We’ll help you,” Ellen said.

“You don’t remember any of it either,” Mistress hissed meanly. “None of you remember _anything_ from before, so how can you help me? He was a clever one, that asshole. Taking away all our memories so we’d never know what we’ve lost and what we’re missing. Or that we were ever human once.”

“But we were, and you were,” Ellen said sternly, bouncing forward to look Mistress in the eye. “You can prove that asshole wrong. You are more than your memories, and more than your shape.”

Mistress stared at Ellen for a moment, and then guiltily slunk forward, paws over her face and muzzle. “God, I’m so sorry,” she said, voice muffled. “You’re right, thank you, it’s just… I get confused sometimes.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Ellen said kindly. “Sure you won’t have some tea? I’m still full.”

“Actually… something a little stronger might be nice?” She peeked out from under her paws. “I can still taste blood in my mouth.”

Castiel and Dean rose to fetch something for her, and were surprised to find Sam _still_ waiting outside the door. He was chewing on a knuckle worriedly, and jerked when he saw them.

“Hey,” Sam said awkwardly. “Um. I just wanted to know if she was…”

“Oh, look at you, all cold and tired,” Ellen said loudly, bouncing forward before either Castiel or Dean could get a word in. “Do you want something to warm you up? Tea? Hot chocolate? A shot of whiskey?”

Sam blinked. “Uh…”

“You’re right,” Ellen said cheerfully, “We’ll get you all of the above. Come on, boys!” She bounced off, but not before giving them a quick lookthat meant that there Castiel and Dean were to follow, no argument.

“Smooth,” Dean whispered to Castiel. He nodded with agreement, but couldn’t help smiling when Sam took the invitation and stepped over the threshold into the room.

* * *

5

Jo, Dean, Victor and Pamela were sitting on a windowsill, watching their Mistress and Sam walk the grounds. According to the word on the vine, it had been Sam’s idea, his latching on to Mistress’ admission that she never went outside the castle anymore unless it was in her wolf-mind state to hunt. He’d suggested a walk, and she’d agreed.

It wasn’t the circumstances leading up to this particular walk in the snow that were important. What _was_ important was that they were talking, and had been talking every opportunity they’d had since the night of Sam’s escape and return. Neither boredom nor disgust had reared its head in their interactions, and Castiel considered that to be very promising.

“What’s up with all the plaid that beanstalk’s wearing?” Victor said, snorting in amusement. “Don’t we have some decent clothes lying around here somewhere?”

Then there was the highly invested peanut gallery, who were catching every little tidbit they could and sharing it in colorful detail. Castiel, who was sitting on a table not too far away from them, only had to listen.

“I think he’s perfectly charming the way he is,” Jo said.

“What do you think they have to talk about?” Pamela asked.

“I’d say plenty,” Dean said, sounding thoughtful. “He’s smart, sympathetic and has some two-decades-worth of life living outside this goddamn castle. She’s smart, candid, and hasn’t had anyone to talk to in a long time that wasn’t a servant.”

Jo gasped. “Oh my god, she’s wagging her tail. Check it out, she’s wagging her tail!”

There was an awed silence, and then Dean let out a whoop of, “Go Sam!”

“Yes, that’s not at all creepy, you guys,” Ellen said, rolling up to join them.

Castiel found that he was smiling to himself. It had been his hope that all Mistress needed was a chance. Sam had turned out to be more wonderful than they could have hoped, and if Castiel had fingers, he would surely be crossing them a little harder now.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean called out. “You gotta come see this.”

“It’s all right, I have things to do,” Castiel replied, which was true. He had the afternoon’s task schedule to go through. Sam’s room needed to be cleaned, Sam had made a specific request for dinner but Bobby hadn’t been able to find some of the ingredients and was yelling at people—

“Cas.”

Castiel started at Dean’s waving candle-hands in his face. “What?”

“Take a freaking break already,” Dean said, pulling the paper away. “Things are going well, you should enjoy it.”

“Running a castle isn’t all fun and games, Dean—”

“No, it isn’t, and it hasn’t been for a long time,” he said, teasing gone. Dean was looking at Castiel in that quietly serious way he went sometimes. It made Castiel uneasy, though he didn’t think there was anything Dean could be judging himfor. “I think it’s great how dedicated you are in keeping things going, but for the first time in a long time, something _right_ has happened. You should be with us now, sharing that.”

Castiel looked at the windowsill. Ellen and Ash had joined the group in offering commentary, and they chattering away happily. They were happiest Castiel could remember them being.

“I’d spoil your fun.” Castiel pulled his paper out from under Dean’s unresisting hand. “You know me.”

Dean’s mouth thinned. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Wait wait wait, where are they going?” Pamela wailed suddenly. “Come back!”

“It _is_ stupid cold outside, you know,” Jo said. “And she’s the only one with a winter coat.”

A sudden noise made everyone turn around – Mistress had come running through the doors into their hall, practically bouncing on her paws. She was panting softly, her eyes bright and alert, and there were snowflakes on her whiskers.

“I need help,” she said. “Sam loves books. I just remembered – we have a library, don’t we? I want to take him there, but I don’t think it’s presentable?”

Castiel bowed. “It can be done, Mistress, but we’ll need a few hours, at least.”

“I’m sure we can find something to keep you guys busy until then,” Dean said. Then, with far less cheek, “Uh, you know what I mean. Your Highness.”

Mistress was in far too good spirits to be offended. She sat back on her haunches, grinning broadly – and somehow looking far less a wolf and more an oversized shaggy puppy – and said, “Yes, I do. And I’d love suggestions.”

* * *

4

The closer that Mistress and Sam got, the harder it became for anyone to concentrate on anything that wasn’t watching their progress. Somewhere around the time that Ash accidentally crashed in the wine cellar while picking up a bottle of Merlot on Mistress’ orders – which caused an outbreak of mirth and prompted Dean to go around asking everyone if they’d pay in credit to see Ash do it again – Castiel threw up his hands and conceded that it was a lost cause.

Castiel preferred to err on the side of caution, but even he was not immune to the wave of infectious hope that had swept the castle. Curtains were being pulled back, windows opened to let in fresh air, nooks and crannies that had previously been abandoned now cheerfully swept and cleaned.

The castle had woken up.

“I don’t remember what it’s like to have hands and arms,” Jo said. Previously, sorrow and bitterness had made the topic a taboo, but now it was being raised freely all over the castle. “So the first thing I’m going to do is juggle. Better yet, fail to juggle in the most spectacular way possible.”

“Red meat,” Victor said, “I’m going to eat it.”

“Wine,” Ellen said, “I’m going to hit it.”

“Sex,” Dean added. “I’m going to have a shitload of it.”

There was a chorus of wistful sighs.

It would have been vastly unkind for Castiel to suggest that the reason everyone was getting so worked up was because they knew that Mistress didn’t have much time left to fulfill the conditions needed to break the curse. It was a perfect case of people running on denial, their salvation close but the deadline even closer.

Castiel, in his current form, was a clock. He could no more deny his ability to keep track of time than he could will his present body to sweat or bleed. Hence, he knew right down to the minute how much time Mistress had left until the peak of the full moon would seal her mind, and their fates.

So even as he kept track of the countdown, he also kept his silence. Holding his tongue was the best way to be supportive.

“We need one last big shebang for these crazy kids,” Dean suggested, after a couple more of Mistress and Sam’s almost-dates continued to bring no change. It was no surprise to Castiel that now crunch time was upon them, Dean was at the front of it trying to move things along. “Something big.”

The answer came when, during one of his casual and expected explorations of the castle, Sam wandered into the grand ballroom and asked, “Has this place ever been used?”

That was how Castiel found himself part of a team supervising Sam’s dress-up for the sake of one last big shebang: an honest-to-goodness formal dinner in the castle’s grand ballroom, attendees: 2. Needless to say, the castle staff had exploded with glee at this, and had gone all out in making sure it would be as spectacular as possible.

There was no way Sam could have misunderstood the intent behind it, and he’d still said yes.

“I’ve never worn any of this fancy stuff before,” Sam was saying, wrestling with the dress clothes they’d found, cleaned and altered for him.

“That’s why we have a diagram for you, Sam,” Castiel said helpfully. “Here.”

Sam shuffled forward, squinting down at the numbered diagram. His face was a mask of concentration as he slowly detangled himself to set his clothes to rights. Sam was nervous, and his fingers clumsy.

“This is insane,” Sam murmured.

Castiel lifted up a hand mirror for Sam’s guidance. “What is, Sam?”

Sam laughed. “Where to start? I’m in an enchanted castle ruled by a werewolf. Every morning I wake up thinking: this is nuts. Grade A nuts. Then I think: hey, there’s something I forgot to mention to her yesterday. I should find her, let her know, would she find that interesting, or would I be even more a loser? Or maybe there’s this other book she’d like to read, or maybe _she_ has something she wants to tell _me_ , she’s really funny and she knows some ace poetry, did you know that? And her eyes are so sadsometimes and _…_ how the hell do I put this on?” He turned away defensively, cheeks tinted red.

“Sam…” Castiel wished that Dean would hurry back. He would know what to say at this important time to smooth things over and make sure the afternoon played out as it had to. “You’ve put that on wrong. Come here.”

Sam leaned down, allowing Castiel to reach up and fix his collar.

“Nothing here is what it seems to be, is it?” Sam asked. “Not just her, I mean. Everyone. Dean’s always making jokes, you’re always hard-nosed, but that’s not all that’s going on with you guys.”

“This isn’t about us.” Castiel tried to sound supportive, though knowing his luck he was probably coming off officious and irritable. “This is for you, Sam Winchester. Chin up.”

Most of Castiel’s vision was filled up by the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, but he noticed when Sam’s mouth lifted in a smile. “You sound just like Dean. Only more polite. I guess that’s what happens when you hang around each other so much.”

Castiel scowled at Sam’s chin. “Dean spends time with everyone. He likes everyone, and everyone likes him.”

“Yeah, but it’s always the two of you I see together and…” Sam pulled back, his smile wavering when he saw Castiel’s expression. “Never mind.”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel said.

“Forget it.” Sam studied his reflection. “You’re really good at this, Cas, have you ever—”

“Motherfucking cufflinks!” Dean shouted, skidding through the door. He sighed in melodramatic relief when he saw them. “Thank god, you haven’t touched the hair.”

Castiel made a non-committal sound. “Took you long enough.”

“Not my fault!” Dean protested, jumping up to join Castiel on the table. “Jake had some OCD thing going on when he was polishing these damn things, you’re just lucky I got back here at all. Now where were we, Sammy-boy?”

Sam’s ‘stupid hair’, as Dean called it, apparently required a very complicated procedure involving combs and mousse. It was clear to Castiel that Dean was living vicariously through Sam, glee in his every instruction, gesture and comment as he handled ‘the finishing touch’. Castiel wasn’t keen on changing too much of Sam’s appearance lest it render him unrecognizable, but no one could deny the effect once he was fully dressed and made up, standing straight before the room’s full-length mirror.

“Huh,” Sam said. He tugged at the unfamiliar collar, then scowled at his hand and forced it to remain down by his side.

“Not a boy,” Castiel said.

“Yep.” Dean proudly pretend-wiped a tear from his eye. “Our Sam’s all grown up.”

“You can stop talking about me like I’m not here,” Sam said, though he was grinning, a high flush in his cheeks. “Uh, it’s not going to be a problem if I don’t know which one’s the salad spoon or something, right?”

“Dude, she has _paws_ ,” Dean said. “You’ll be fine, as long as you be yourself. Well, a more dolled-up version of yourself, but still yourself, because that’s why you’re here at all. Cas, got any last minute words of advice?”

“Not really, no,” Castiel said. “But I agree with Dean, you should be yourself.”

“Oh, come on,” Dean said with a laugh. “No extra hints what to—”

“That’s your specialty, Dean,” Castiel said. “Not mine.”

Sam wasn’t listening, because the door had opened and Victor was announcing that their Mistress was ready to receive him. That gave Dean the opening to lean towards Castiel and whisper, “I know none of us can remember the finer deets from before, but you definitely know how to boss people around, even if you don’t remember how you _learned_ to boss people around?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, refusing to feel uncomfortable under Dean’s questioning. “And I still don’t know anything about courtship, or romance, whichever term you want to use.”

Dean drew back, expression unreadable.

Castiel winced at the joke that hadn’t come. “Please don’t say it.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Dean replied. Then, louder, “Get going, Sasquatch, time’s a-wasting.”

* * *

3

The dinner was held in the day time to accommodate the Mistress’ lunar sensitivity, but the curtains were drawn closed to give the illusion of night, and the ballroom itself lit magnificently –surely Dean’s finest work. A few of the staff were allowed to hover at a polite distance to mind the necessities, but otherwise it was just their Mistress and Sam, both elegantly dressed in a lovely, if slightly twisted, vision of what this ballroom must have once been used for.

“Why didn’t anyone get turned into a camera?” Dean whispered. He and Castiel were at one such vantage point away, watching. “Someone should’ve become a camera.”

It had never occurred to Castiel that Her Highness could be beautiful in this form. Ellen and Pamela had worked wonders on her fur, which was now shiny and sleek, and combed back to softness. Her eyes, usually eerily cold through no fault of her own, were warmer under the deliberate lighting. Even her fangs didn’t seem as sharp.

But Sam, Castiel realized, had _already_ been looking at her this way, before the clean-up and the combing and the attempt to dress her up in order to resemble something human. There were still occasional moments where he’d pause and blink – surprised, yet again, when he remembered that Mistress was a werewolf – but then it’d pass and his smile would be back.

Here was their Mistress, standing upright despite how that posture must be straining her back, enraptured, vibrant, and wholly unafraid to smile. Castiel and the others used to shudder every time they saw her teeth, but the softness of Sam’s gaze never even wavered.

This was real.

Castiel shuddered, thinking back to his previous clinical appraisal of Sam as a means to an end. He’d been so wrong, and not only because Mistress deserved more than that, but it was wonderful to be wrong, and to be humbled.

Ellen was nearby, Jo tucked to her side as she hummed along with the music from their makeshift mini-orchestra, but suddenly all Castiel could hear was the _tick tick tick_ of the countdown. The set-up was grand, but this was it. Whatever could happen between Mistress and Sam, had to happen now.

“Dude, chill,” Dean said, shoving his shoulder against Castiel’s. “I can hear you freaking out from over here.”

“I’m not freaking out,” Castiel said quietly.

“Freaking out,” Dean said firmly. When Castiel dared glance over, it wasn’t to the sight of Dean’s usual cocky smirk. His waxen face had gone still, his usual sun-bright smile tempered by unexpected anxiety. Of course Dean hadn’t forgotten the stakes. He was just as scared as Castiel was, the only difference between them being that he was better at pretending he wasn’t.

Castiel touched Dean’s arm in a show of comfort. Dean leaned against him, chuckling softly.

“All we can do is wait, right?” Dean said. “You know what’s one of the very first things I’m going to do if we get out of this, Cas? I’m going to walk barefoot on grass. Any grass. If there’s rain, I’m going run through it.” He sounded wistful, and Castiel wasn’t sure how he felt about the sudden lack of Dean’s typical hyperbolic confidence.

“You’d make a very good human, Dean,” Castiel managed to say.

“So would you.” Dean smirked. “Well. Mostly.”

Castiel hadn’t thought much about what life might be after – it was far too sentimental, and just as dangerous – but now, with the finishing line within sight, he tried to imagine himself in Sam’s shape. But no matter how he tried, the image wouldn’t gel. The only face he knew was made of glass and wood, and had twelve numbers in shaped brass.

Dean, though. He could see Dean as human easily, shoulders at a casual rest, hands shoved into his pockets, maybe a cowlick over bright eyes. And tactile, he was definitely tactile. It hit Castiel then how badly Dean must be craving the return of human hands; hands of skin over muscle and bone, hands that never dripped wax and never burned people if they got too close.

“What’s the first thing you want to do when…?” Dean turned to him questioningly.

Castiel shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Dean’s smile went a little lopsided, but not in his usual, mocking way. “There must be something.”

“No,” Castiel said. “I can’t think of anything. I’ve been in service of Mistress’ family almost my whole life, I don’t think that’d change. It’d be easier to get around, though. No need to call for reinforcements when I need to get something from a top shelf and – Dean?”

He had pulled away, staring at Castiel with wide eyes. “What?”

“The top shelf,” Castiel repeated. “It would be easier—”

“How do you know you’ve been in her family’s service?” Dean demanded. “And that you’d been in it almost all your life?”

“Of course I know…” Castiel trailed off, mentally replaying what he’d said. “It’s coming back.”

Dean made a choked sound of surprise. “Does that mean the spell’s broken? Or breaking?”

As one, they turned to Mistress and Sam, who had ended their twirl around the ballroom and were adjourning to the balcony. They _were_ glowing, but it wasn’t with supernatural magic.

“Damn.” Dean looked down at his candle-hands, which were still candle-hands. “ _Damn_. This is a good thing, though, right? It must mean we’re almost there! What else do you remember? Wait, I think _I_ remember something. Ellen – Ellen’s the one who  suggested I get a job at the castle.”

“That’s right!” Castiel exclaimed. He shut his eyes, trying to encourage the soft, shapeless memories to form something more tangible. “Ellen hired you. I remember being angry about it, but she vouched for you.” He opened his eyes, frowning. “I don’t think I liked you very much.”

“Yeah, okay, but what do I _look_ like?” Dean was practically shaking with excitement. “Am I a red-head? I think I’d rock being a red-head. And, you know, it keeps with the theme of fire coming out of the top of my head.”

“Sorry, that one’s a blank,” Castiel said apologetically. “But I think I know—”

“My name,” Dean said suddenly. He swayed, falling to his knees in shock. Castiel had to catch him before he fell over. “My name’s Winchester.”

“Winchester?” Castiel echoed. “Isn’t that…”

Again, they looked up. Out on the balcony, Sam was ducking his head at something Mistress had said. She’d given up trying to sit upright and was now perched on the balustrade, head tilted towards Sam in affection.

“Sam.” Dean recited the name with a pained edge of familiarity. “ _Sammy_. Jesus Christ, he’s my brother. I have a brother – I have a _father_.”

“Dean.” Castiel touched his shoulder, forcing Dean to meet his gaze. “Dean, that’s wonderful.”

“How is it wonderful?” Dean said angrily. “That bastard’s spell went beyond the castle! I thought no one came here because we’re invisible or magically hidden or some shit like that, but it’s because the whole world’s _forgotten_ us? I have a brother – god, we’ve been talking to each other all this time! And he doesn’t even know that I’m gone.”

“But he’ll know you again soon,” Castiel pointed out gently. “When the spell is broken, everyone will remember, and you can go home.”

“Shit.” Dean’s expression shifted, realization sinking in. “I have a home outside the castle. I have a family.”

They turned their gazes to the balcony, the curtains had fallen across the windows to give the pair their privacy.

Dean’s voice cracked only a little on its broken, “Please.”

* * *

2

In making the journey up to Mistress’ quarters, Castiel overheard at least a half-dozen excited declarations of _I remember_ from various pockets of conversation all over the castle. He ignored them all, because _tick tick tick_ went the countdown in his head.

What Castiel had newly remembered of his life were little more than fragments: leaving home, coming to the castle as a youth, starting work in the gardens, trying different duties and excelling at all except the kitchen, loving the feel of his dress uniform when he wore it for the first time _._ They were wonderful glimpses into the life that had once been his, but they were only that – glimpses.

Dean had been sure that this was a sign that the spell was crumbling, but Castiel wasn’t so certain. The cynical part of him (that Dean hated) was insisting the opposite: that to have some memories restored just before the countdown ran out – and that world denied to them forever – would be the most exquisite punishment of all. The enchanter was certainly bitter enough to have added that as a final kick in their collective balls.

Castiel _wanted_ to believe they were almost home-free. Every step he made up the staircase to their Mistress’ rooms, he told himself that it made more sense that this was the curse’s hold on them falling to pieces.

That hope was dashed the moment Mistress granted him entry and he saw her face.

“What happened?” Castiel asked, decorum forgotten. “Your Highness, what is it?”

She was sitting by the window, hind legs tucked under her in the pose of a proud wolf. The dress she’d been wearing, and all the human accessories of their playing pretend in the ballroom, were gone. There was nothing sad, or angry, or happy in her half-lidded eyes.

Just an eerie blankness, like the night the spell had been cast on them in the first place.

“I let him go,” Mistress said.

Castiel’s breath caught. “Highness?”

“He should be preparing to leave.” Her tail flicked but she was otherwise as still as a statue, watching the orange-red glow of sunset outside the window.

“Did he,” Castiel hoped he was using the right word, “reject you?”

“It was pleasant,” she said, cool and distant and utterly unreadable. That wasn’t precisely a _no_ , so maybe there hadn’t been any declarations one way or the other. “But not enough, as you can see. If there were more time, maybe, but there isn’t. So I let him go.”

“But there is!” Castiel exclaimed. “We have a few hours—”

“No.” Mistress closed her eyes, shutting out the world. “He needs to leave now, so that he can safely reach his town before nightfall. He should be gathering his things now. You will make sure that he passes through the gates, and then you will have them sealed.”

“Mistress—”

“One last order, Castiel,” she said. “That’s all I need done. You’re dismissed.” She turned away, her word final.

So that was it, then.

No longer _tick tick tick_ , there was a rolling chant of _so close so close so close_ in Castiel’s mind as he left her rooms and made the journey to execute her final command. He was in shock, and, curiously, a part of him recognized that he was in shock.

Their last chance was gone.

“Cas!”

Dean was right in front of him, having used that ability he had to always find Castiel wherever he was in the castle. He had obviously been hoping for good news, but there wasn’t any for Castiel to share.

Castiel’s mouth moved. He could barely hear his own voice over the roar in his ears, but he must have had said something, because his shock was now on Dean’s face. 

“She let him _go_?” Dean said.

Castiel nodded. Against all odds they’d had Sam, Sam had come _to them,_ fate was a cruel mistress, he could hardly comprehend the injustice of it—

“Cas, you dick!” Dean screamed. Castiel reeled in alarm, but didn’t make it too far before Dean closed in on him angrily. “She listens to you, why didn’t you tell her that was a stupid idea?” Castiel tried to say that the Mistress had made the decision before he’d even talked to her, but Dean said, “You’re so selfish!”

“What?” It was hard to think. “Dean, it was wrong to keep him here, you know that—”

“She can’t afford to be kind!” Dean yelled. “Yes, it’s wrong to keep someone against their will – find me someone who doesn’t know that – but we don’t have a _choice_. Sam can walk away any time he wants, but we – can’t. We’re trapped here like _this_ , and if the way things have been going is any clue, this is _forever_. We don’t eat, we don’t sleep, we don’t change, we probably won’t even die. Can you understand that? Has that even _occurred_ to you?”

It had, but Castiel had never voiced those concerns aloud. What would have been the point?

“Sam loses nothing by staying here,” Dean said. “But we lose everything if he leaves.”

“That’s not my choice,” Castiel said.

“Fuck you, Cas,” Dean snarled. “You like things the way they are, don’t you? You get to be in charge of everyone, and you never need to give a fuck ever again about useless human things like food and sleep and life outside the castle. That would be Heaven to you.”

Castiel stared at Dean’s departing back. There was no blood to rush through in Castiel’s body, but his non-human hands of wood and varnish still trembled.

Dean was right. He wasn’t always, but he could see into people the way Castiel couldn’t, finding truth and raising it to the light. Castiel was the one who always told people to be cautious and wary, and not let themselves have too much hope. Dean was the one who encouraged, and pushed the envelope, and fought for what he believed in. Castiel played it safe as though that would protect him from disappointment.

That was bullshit.

For once, Castiel should have fought harder, and he didn’t.

But there was still time to right this.

* * *

1

Sam’s backpack was full, but not so full that Castiel couldn’t throw a few things out and climb into it while Sam’s back was turned, which was exactly what he did.

There were massive flaws in this plan. Castiel liked plans that had as few flaws as possible, so this was almost an entirely new experience, but if Castiel was ever going to fly by the seat of his pants, it had better be now.

Flaw number one: Words were Dean’s forte, not Castiel’s. Dean would know what to say to Sam to make him turn around, but Castiel’s mind was coming up blank. The only thing he had to offer was the truth, i.e. that someone (human) had to declare their love to the Mistress before the night’s full moon reached its peak, but knowing that would taint the validity of Sam’s declaration. It had to be real, for a guilt-prompted declaration would accomplish nothing. Dean would’ve been able to pull at Sam’s heartstrings somehow, Castiel was sure of it, but there had been no time to rope Dean into this, especially not while he was angry with Castiel.

Flaw number two: Due to the fact that Castiel didn’t know how to convince Sam, he had decided to hide in Sam’s backpack so to retain their proximity, so that when Castiel _did_ figure out what to say, he could, _voila_ , pop out and say it, and Sam would turn around and return. But the longer Castiel didn’t know what to say, the farther Sam legs took them both.

Flaw number three: They had passed the castle gates and entered the woods.

“Mercy,” Castiel prayed, hands clutched together. A book smacked him in the face, but it was only a minor irritation. “Give me an idea. If I’m ever to have an idea, let me have it now. Think. What would make Sam turn around and go back?”

An idea bloomed wickedly in Castiel’s head. It was awful and manipulative, but it turned flaw number three into something useful, and these were desperate times. He could wait a few minutes until the freezing started, and then he’d reveal himself to Sam and explain why it was vital that Castiel get back to the castle. And Sam would do it. Sam would bring him back, because Sam had a good heart.

Of course, Castiel had no idea how to go from there to setting up Sam’s declaration, but one step at a time.

Castiel was just gearing up to execute his plan when Sam suddenly stopped walking.

Pressing his head against the canvas, Castiel could hear voices outside. They were mostly male and raised in strong emotion, though he couldn’t make out precisely what was being said.

Sam’s whole body jerked. His voice rumbled through the bag, “Dad? Dad, what’s going on – yes, I’m fine, no really, I’m _fine_. She let me go.”

There was a loud: “She let you _go_? Why would she—”

“She’s not evil, Dad,” Sam said. Other voices lifted around him in angry dissent, trying to drown Sam out. “No, she’s not! She let me go, I swear I’m not lying, you can’t – Dad! No, you can’t!”

Here was John Winchester, Sam (and Dean)’s father, whom they’d forgotten. He was a hunter who’d seen their Mistress with his own eyes, and this whole time he’d been suffering to thoughts of Sam languishing in a cold, dank prison cell – or worse yet, dead at the hands of a werewolf.

“Dad, please!” Sam begged. “Don’t do this.”

The bag was thrown to the ground. Castiel grunted at the impact, though there was no pain. No one cared about a bag, but he could hear sounds of a struggle, of Sam yelling and other people yelling back. And then, after what seemed like an eternity, footsteps taking the commotion away.

Accepting the risk, Castiel slowly pushed his way out of the bag.

They were still in the woods. A fire had been lit, which was thoughtful, because the sun had already set.

Sam was tied up, gagged, and propped against a tree. He was thrashing wildly against the ropes, more desperation than calculation in his struggles. When he heard Castiel’s movement he froze, looked up, and then wailed wordlessly around the gag.

“Knife? Any sharp objects?” Castiel asked. Sam shook his head, eyes pleading but hopeful.

There was nothing for it. Castiel opened the glass door in his chest and reached in, his hand closing around the anchor escapement that was roughly where his collarbone should have been. He knew it wouldn’t hurt because the transformation had already begun, but he still closed his eyes when he pulled.

The piece of metal wasn’t very sharp, but he just had to cut in one or two vital places and then Sam would be freed.

Once the gag was off, Sam made quick work pushing off the ropes and babbling, “My father – silver bullets – other hunters – they’re going after her! I told them – I said she wasn’t – we have to stop them! They’ll see she’s not—”

“But she will be,” Castiel said, grabbing Sam’s arm to force him to listen. “The woman you know will be no more after tonight. After midnight tonight her conscious mind will never return.”

Sam’s eyes went wide, hand over his mouth in horrified understanding. “She let me go to save my life,” he choked. Castiel didn’t need to get another word in; Sam just tucked him under his arm and started running.

It would be cruel, Castiel mused, if even after all this, the spell wouldn’t be broken. Why did it have to be a verbal declaration, anyway, besides the fact that the magician who’d cast the spell was a petty bastard with a grudge. Sam obviously cared for Mistress, and love wasn’t a binary condition.

It would be nice if it were broken, though. And it would be nice to be there if it happened.

Castiel was being jolted harshly every time Sam jumped or swerved to avoid a hazard, but he couldn’t feel anything anymore. The gears inside him were ticking away brokenly now that the main escapement was gone, but sensation felt distant, like they belonged to someone else’s body. Though ‘body’ was the wrong word, for this wasn’t a body, this was an imitation of a body that ran on ‘freaky magical biology’, as Dean had called it.

Ah, Dean. It was in the clarity of winding down that Castiel realized that Dean hadn’t been angry at him, not really. He’d just been harshly disappointed at their fate, and had taken it out on Castiel. Everyone went into shock differently, that was just Dean’s way.

Castiel considered asking Sam to pass a message to Dean, just in case they didn’t make it back to the castle in time and the magic that kept him alive and running ran out. He brushed that thought aside; Sam had bigger concerns on his plate.

“What’s happening to you?” Sam asked. He glanced down at Castiel, which was unnecessary because he needed to save his energy to run. “You’re changing, like you’re turning into a real clock.”

“Not important,” Castiel said. It was difficult to talk, his tongue slowly fusing to the top of his mouth. “Just a clock.”

Somewhere between Sam taking a running leap over a log and his eventual landing on the ground, Castiel’s vision went dark.

Then, there was shouting.

It seemed to be coming from a great distance, or through a wall of water. There was the suggestion of words, but it was hard to tell what was going on at all until something in (whatever functioned as) Castiel’s ears popped and Dean was yelling in his face.

“Cas, you goddamn fucking fuckhead!” Dean was shouting.

Castiel blinked. He had eyes to blink. His hands, when he raised them, were painfully familiar: varnished wood shaped in a caricature of mittens.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Dean grabbed Castiel’s shoulders, shaking him. Castiel usually didn’t like Dean to touch him because he got wax everywhere, but this was reassuring. “You went out of the castle, are you crazy?”

“Sam,” Castiel croaked. He lifted his head up, relieved that he recognized the castle’s pillars and wallpaper around them. They’d come back. “Where’s Sam?”

“Sam’s upstairs, he went to find her,” Dean said, shaking his head in disbelief. “He was carrying you, and you were…”

“There were other hunters,” Castiel said quickly. “Lead by John, I think, they were going to hunt her down—”

“We know, we’re dealing with it,” Dean said wryly. It was only then that Castiel noticed the noises in the background: shouting, curses, a loud terrifying whoop, and then a crash of something that could only have been Bobby slamming into a wall. Dean said, “I’ve got to go – my father’s going to make a huge mistake.”

“Of course.” Castiel tried to sit up but his chest exploded in pain, making him hiss and fall back against the carpet. “I don’t think I can—”

“Shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down,” Dean said. “You were dead. You’ve earned a time out.”

Castiel nodded. There was something important, though, something he had to say. “Dean, you were right, I wasn’t—”

“No, seriously, shut the fuck up,” Dean snapped. “You’re lots of things, Cas, but you’re not selfish, and you’re not a dick. Just…” He paused, too many emotions passing over his face. “Just be alive when I get back, okay?”

Something warm bloomed inside Castiel. He nodded.

“Okay.” Dean cast one quick look in Castiel’s direction – more to reassure himself than anything else – and rushed off.

Castiel lay flat against the carpet, breathing quietly.

* * *

0

The gunshot was as shocking as the end of the world.

Castiel had been working as the help for a long time, so he was used to missing interesting things when they happened and getting the story after the fact. While he lay in a relatively secluded part of the castle recovering from magic deprivation and self-inflicted wounds, somewhere else a curse was being broken.

Later, he would be told all about how Sam had daringly stormed the castle in search of its Mistress, using his familiarity with the building to slip past a group of hunters. Those hunters, in turn, had been preoccupied with an ambush orchestrated by the enchanted residents of the castle.

Castiel would be told that his Mistress had been in the West Wing, watching the rising moon and waiting for her last conscious thought. Two Winchesters found her at almost the same time, and came to blows over the circumstances that had brought them there: John, a father who’d spent weeks terrified for his son and gathering the resources to siege the castle, Sam, a son and friend who wanted prevent blood from being shed on either side.

The wildcard had been Dean, the missing son and brother, who interceded and ended the fight. (Though it would be difficult for anyone to get the full story on that part; Dean would say it was nothing, Sam and John would refuse to talk about it at all, and the Princess would claim that she missed everything.)

The gunshot, Castiel would later learn, had come from John’s gun. It was also the shot that saved their lives and broke the spell.

The actual experience of the spell being broken felt (for Castiel, at least) like having a heart attack, and then being forced into painful awareness by the sudden rush of air through real nostrils into real lungs and out a real mouth.

Mistress Madison probably had it better, wherever she was, but for a minute or so of being newly human again, Castiel just felt bloated, sore, and on the verge of throwing up. It hardly seemed worth it, he thought muzzily, but that thought only lasted until the moment he looked down and saw human hands resting on a human stomach.

 _His_ human hands, with eight fingers and two thumbs in a correct configuration.

Castiel pressed those hands to his face, breathing a prayer into his fleshy palms before feeling around for two eyes, a nose, a mouth, ears and a stubbly chin. His clothes were the ones he’d worn the night of the initial transformation, which raised some interesting existential questions about where they’d been all this time.

Freaky magical biology it was, then.

In the distance, Castiel could hear cheering. He thought he could pick out a few voices above the din – that was definitely Bobby cursing, and that was very likely Ash’s high-pitched squeal.

Castiel dragged himself up, swaying with vertigo thanks to the additional four feet between his eyeline and the ground. He patted his chest, relieved to find that freaky magical biology apparently meant that whatever injuries he’d had as a clock hadn’t carried over, which was one blessing. After giving himself a moment to regain his balance, he slowly made the walk to the landing.

It was hard to tell at first who were hunters and who were from the castle. It was only by studying carefully that he was able to pick out Jo, her fair hair streaming behind her as she was twirled by someone in a dark jacket – Victor, Castiel realized after a moment. He saw Bobby hugging someone, and there was Ellen giving a stern talking to pair of hunters tied up in the middle of the floor.

Watching the celebrations below made Castiel smile, but that seemed to be all he had the energy for.

They’d come out on the other side successful. The relief of it made him ache, but at the same time he felt exhausted all the way down to his newly-returned bones. His head had trouble adjusting to the realization that they’d won and the world had changed – no, been _restored._

Everyone would finally be able to move on.

Castiel dazedly pushed away from the landing and made the trek down to the kitchens, his regular haunt during the quieter days before Sam’s arrival. He would usually sit at that spot on the counter, Dean would be there badgering him, Ellen would be there clucking her tongue, and Bobby would be over there grumbling with Rufus. It was funny, Castiel had only been human for a couple of minutes but he was already thinking in the past tense.

The sound of footsteps approaching at a dead run should have been more alarming, but Castiel had a pretty good idea who it was.

“Cas?”

Not a surprise at all. “Dean.” He turned.

Castiel’s memories were steadily slotting back into place, so Dean’s face was both brand new and familiar. In human form, Dean was about Castiel’s height, or maybe an inch or so little taller. He was also a little bit broader than Castiel had expected, but having a candelabra frame for a body would’ve had a slimming effect on anyone.

Dean’s eyes were wide as he stared at Castiel, throat clicking when he swallowed.

“You’re not a red-head,” Castiel said.

“Yeah.” Dean ducked his head briefly. He looked unsure, though it was perfectly understandable if he was as disoriented as Castiel. “Uh… Sam – I was there when he broke the spell. You should’ve seen him. Mistress was begging him to shoot her before her mind flipped out for good.”

“Oh.” Castiel thought about what that meant. “ _Oh._ He loved her enough to do it.”

“Yeah, and he was crying the whole time, with snot and everything,” Dean said, though the accompanying laugh sounded dry and a little terrified. “But he did it, and he said it, and it was enough. It’s kinda fucked up if you think about it, but it’s not like the dude who cast the spell in the first place was firing on all cylinders, and whatever works, right? Princess Maddy’s alive and back the way she was. You should’ve seen ‘em, clinging to each other and bawling their eyes out.”

“Thank goodness.” Castiel could be satisfied with that. “And your father?”

“He’ll be fine,” Dean said, corner of his mouth twitching. “Sure, he was pissed, but he meant well, and he’ll get over it. And hey, he’s pretty happy to have back a whole son he’d forgotten he’d lost.”

Castiel found the reserves to smile in what he hoped was a supportive way. “I’m very happy for you, Dean. You have your family back.” It would be so quiet in the castle. “You can finally go home.”

Dean’s real face was more animated than his waxen one. He went from awkward to sharp in the blink of an eye, narrowed gaze on Castiel. “Uh, Cas? You do know that me and you, Jo, Ellen, Bobby, everyone… we’re a family, too?”

Castiel looked down at his feet, deciding that he was probably still in shock. Against all personal probability, he’d done something insane, technically died, and then technically been reborn twice all in quick succession. He couldn’t be expected to follow every line of conversation as well as he usually did.

That certainly explained why he didn’t feel as grateful as he knew he should be.

“Cas.” Dean had come in close, his hand on Castiel’s arm.

“You have hands,” Castiel said. That pleased him greatly. “You finally get to do all things you’ve wanted.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, sounding faintly stunned, “About that.”

The hand that had been on Castiel’s arm moved up to cup the side of Castiel’s jaw. The touch of skin on skin was as shocking as the first breath into Castiel’s returned lungs, the sensation indescribable after having existed so long without.

“Dean?” Castiel said hesitantly, watching as Dean closed his eyes and leaned in. It was only at the first touch of Dean’s lips to Castiel’s that something at the back of Castiel’s mind said: _Yes._

Yes, this was what he’d wanted.

Dean’s lips were warm and soft and everything that was wonderful about being human. When Castiel kissed back, he felt Dean gasp, as though he hadn’t been sure. That made Castiel kiss him harder, and Dean responded in kind, deepening the kiss and taking from Castiel’s mouth as though starving for it. His arms came round to hold Castiel tightly, relief in the way Dean’s fingers clung into the back of Castiel’s shirt.

They held on to each other. From each kiss to the next Castiel felt the ache that had been gnawing at him fade away, releasing nothing but elation and relief. Dean smelled wonderful, tasted wonderful, _was_ wonderful, and all at once Castiel was thankful – selfishly, _absurdly_ thankful – that this had been waiting for them on the other side.

“Hey,” Dean said, once he’d pulled back to brush his nose against Castiel’s cheek. This close, Castiel could see the green of Dean’s eyes, and the flush on his cheeks beneath the subtle dotting of freckles. He had a wonderful smile. “As fun as this is, we’re missing a pretty big party going on outside. You gonna come with, or what?”

Feeling daring, Castiel slipped his hand into Dean’s. “I’m coming with, of course.”


End file.
